You turn the pages of your newspaper. The world is going to Hell in a handcart. War, pestilence: everywhere. The bus drivers are on strike in Manchester. The Barbarians are at the gate. You lean back in your comfortable armchair and puff on your brier pipe. The aroma of sweet tobacco is somewhat consoling. You glance around the study: your terrain. It is a dominated by a dark, leather-topped desk. It might be a hundred years old. You know it is solid and enduring. It also weighs a ton. It has six drawers in two columns of three. There are two armchairs, each made of a wooden frame covered by a tough fabric coloured green. There are three equally heavy straight-backed wooden chairs arranged along one wall. Glass-fronted bookcases cover two sides. In one corner is the a coatstand with mortar-board cap and flowing academic gown dangling. In another is a tall, thin cupboard. A fireplace is unlit. Whatever might happen in the wider world nothing changes here. That is the way you like it.

The minute hand of the clock on the mantelpiece crawls to number twelve. You rustle the Daily Telegraph and turn the pages. Perhaps, there is better news in the sports section. No! England are failing miserably in the Test. The room is stuffy, only one window opens, the others have been stuck fast since long before you took over as housemaster. The bursar promised to get them fixed. That was two years ago. The muggy air makes you a little drowsy. You should like to abandon the study and return to your home, but you cannot. You have one more duty to perform before your day’s work is done.

All is silence. It is time for lights out. The school is preparing for bed. You hear the floorboards squeak in the passageway outside. You glance at the clock one more time. Your visitor is punctual. The squeaking stops. You imagine him standing outside your door, apprehensive. Not wanting to knock. Anxious, fearful even, about the fate that awaits him. Good, you allow yourself a half-smile, that is exactly how it should be.

At last there is a rap on the door. He has plucked up the courage. You wait counting time in your head. Let him sweat a little. Perhaps he will think you are not at home, that he has been given a reprieve. Ha! “Come!” Your call is imperious. It is a command that must be obeyed. Your eyes are fixed on the door. Slowly it eases open. You see the top of his head first, the hair dishevelled. It is followed by a chubby face. It is the kind of face that loves to smile: but not this evening. It is etched in misery.

“Close the door, boy!” you bark. He shudders, turns, looks at the door as if he had never seen it before. It is old and heavy and takes some of his strength to shut. You watch, puffing your pipe, as he moves further into your study. He stands, head bowed, feet slightly apart, a typical schoolboy pose. He is a large boy, a sixth-former, eighteen-years old, but in his dressing gown and bedroom slippers he appears much younger. He wipes his sweaty palms down the side of the thick woollen robe, then clasps his hands behind his back.

You are in no hurry. Your boys prefer you to “just get on with it”. They know why they are here; you know why they are here. But, you think, where’s the sport in that? You carefully fold your newspaper, shuffling the pages so they are carefully aligned. You put it down on a table then you lift yourself from your chair. The boy’s eyes burn into you as slowly you walk across the study and stand in front of the open, unlit fireplace. You turn and face him. He is sweating. Not for the first time he stealthily rubs his palms against the dressing gown. You place your hands behind your back, this is the posture you always adopt when delivering homilies.

You know there is little you can say in such situations. You summarise his misdoings. You demand his confession. This time it is breaking bounds. The young oaf has been at the Three Fishers, a notorious public house in the village. You know many of the senior boys frequent that den of iniquity. You have dealt with many of them in your study. But, you are certain, not all of them. You know that the schoolmaster and schoolboy play a “cat and mouse” game. The boys break the rules, often undetected. That is (if you will) fifteen-love to them. Of course, when they are caught they must accept their punishment (fifteen-all).

“Well, what have you to say for yourself?” you intone. You expect him to say, “Sorry, sir,” or some such banality. Then you can get on with the business at hand. But, the young fool stays silent. Suddenly, he frowns. Ha! He hasn’t been listening to you. “Pah!” you exclaim. (Is, you wonder, “Pah!” actually a word. You use it a lot but never in an adult context. That is, you only utter the word (sound?) when exasperated with silly boys.) “Do not add dumb insolence to your list of crimes,” you tell him.

His fearful stare tells you he has no idea what question you have asked of him. You repeat it and as expected he has nothing pertinent to add. You say nothing, but, hands behind back, you saunter across the study. You cannot see him, but you know his eyes are following you. You stop at the tall, thin cupboard, straighten your back and plunge your hand into your right trouser pocket. You know it is empty save for a small silver-coloured key. It is so tiny and the pocket so deep that you cannot at first locate it. You fumble around looking to all the world that you are playing pocket billiards. Your ire rises. At last you find it and at the second attempt you get it in the lock of the cupboard.

You are certain the boy is now standing in a state of great anxiety. He knows what is located within the cupboard. You lean into it and delve around for a while before you withdraw a long, thin yellow cane. You peer at it intently and replace it. You pull out a second cane. This one is longer and thicker than the first. It is a darkish-yellow-almost-brown colour. It is a Malay cane. It is denser than your standard “senior” canes but still has the traditional crooked handle. You know it will pack a punch.

You hold the cane at the handle with one hand and its tip with the other and flex it. Then you swipe it through the air. It travels at a terrific whoosh! You always do this. You think it adds to the drama of the occasion. It is meant to intimidate a boy. You have no idea if this is successful, certainly the sixth-former standing before you is no stranger to your study, or your canes.

“Take off your dressing gown and place it on my desk,” you speak slowly and softly. You are in total command there is no need to bark orders as if you were a sergeant-major on a parade ground. You watch as he unwraps the robe from his body and carefully folds it. Now, he wears only pyjamas. You swish the cane through the air, enjoying the rushing noise it makes as it flies. Your pulse quickens.

“Put the chair into place,” you tell him. He knows exactly what you mean and takes a grip on the armchair you were not sitting at and turns it so that the back faces into the room. The task completed, he stands back and respectfully puts his hands behind his back. You stand behind him and swish the cane, you notice with satisfaction perspiration soaks the back of his head. You are ready to go. You thwack the arm of the chair with the cane – you know this is completely unnecessary but you like to add to the drama. “Bend over.” You intone the words dreaded by every schoolboy summoned to your study.

He pauses as if sizing up the chair. You know he is familiar with the process. He is tall and the chair low, he leans forward, rests his elbows on the arms and spreads his legs. His face hovers above the old, worn seat cushion. The boy’s bottom is angled across the apex of the chair, it is perfectly positioned for your purpose. You can best describe him as “chunky”; that is, he is not fat, but nor is he slim. His buttocks, loose when he is standing, tighten considerably when stretched for a caning. Now they are firm and round. The cotton material of the pyjamas fits snugly across the buttocks, each cheek is well defined. He has presented you with a terrific target.

He tenses as you “saw” the cane across the fleshiest part of his bum. You tap it three times to get your distance. You stand about three feet to his left (a cane’s distance) and make sure the tip of the cane reaches the far cheek. You lift it off and raise it to the height of your shoulder, then with a slight turn of the body you crack it down at some pace across the centre of his buttocks. It is a manoeuvre you adapted from the golf links. The crack is satisfying (to you, not the boy since he gasps with the shock.) The cane whistles and thuds as you deliver the second stroke. He grips the chair stifling a groan.

You take in a deep breath and hold it there while you lift the cane once more calling up every ounce of strength. You let fly. Bingo! It swipes him on the back of the thighs. Ha! He’ll feel that every time he sits down for the next week. His hips sashay, his head bounces up and down. His neck is scarlet and so (you know from experience) is his bottom.

You lick your arid lips. Your heart pounds. Your palms are sweating. This time you stand on your toes as you swipe the cane higher across the boy’s quivering rear end. He punches his fists into the seat cushion and emits a “sssssss!” through not-quite clenched teeth. The sound reminds you of a steam train settling down. He stamps his feet up and down.

You tap the cane across his bottom again, taking aim. This time higher on the crest of the mounds, closer to his back. The bottom quivers with anxiety. The cut slices his meaty bum with a downward motion. You take a step or two back to admire your handiwork. You are delighted to see thin white lines from the cane embossed across the seat of his pyjamas. There are welts throbbing underneath. The boy’s face and neck are crimson.

You can’t see your face crack into smile. You have a special treat for the boy this evening. You alter your position. Now you lay the cane across his bottom so it runs the bottom of the left buttock to the top of the right cheek – a diagonal shot. Quickly, you raise the cane and with tremendous force (you might be beating a carpet) slash it across the four welts already pulsating across his backside. He wails like a banshee. His feet stamp, he headbutts the seat cushion. He is in great distress. You know he will remember this thrashing for the rest of his life.

Calmly, you reposition yourself and set the cane along the opposite diagonal. Within a second you have imprinted a perfect “X” across his backside. He repeats the shrieking and the stamping and shakes his hips from left to right. You suddenly realise that your nose is dripping. You wipe it with the back of your hand. Slowly, you move to the cupboard and replace the cane.

That done, you turn and survey the scene. An eighteen-year-old schoolboy is draped across the back of the armchair. His bottom still quivers and his knees remain buckled. His face is contorted like a gargoyle. “You may remove yourself,” you quietly tell him. The punishment is over. He has atoned for his misdeed. You must both now get on with your lives.

You return to your armchair and stare down at the pipe in the ashtray. “Go,” you say and wave a hand at the door. He grabs his dressing gown and struggles with the handle and heavy door on his way out. You relight the pipe and pick up the Daily Telegraph. The world outside may be changing, you think, but in this study things will always remain the same.

Harry slouched disconsolately in the corner seat. The third-class carriage was empty, as was most of the train. A Thursday afternoon in late November was not a popular time to travel. His buttocks ached on the hard wooden seat. He hugged his arms around his body. Miserably, he shivered. At this rate, he reflected, he’d end up in the hospital with pneumonia.

It had been five hours earlier that the porter at St. Tom’s had put him unceremoniously on the train. There was no word of farewell; the brute hadn’t even carried his suitcase. That’s how they treated a chap when he was sacked.

At last, the steam train chugged into Weatherstone Halt. Journey’s End. Or, Harry supposed, New Journey Starts. What did his future have in store? Who knew? The only certainty was that first he must face Uncle Gascoigne.

He stepped from the train into a swirling mist. It engulfed the small platform; he could barely see a hand in front of his face. His feet slipped on the frost beneath his feet. An eerie silence enveloped him. If Harry had been a reader, he might have likened it to a scene from a Victorian ghost story. He stood, uncertain, suitcase by his side. How was he to get to Weatherstone Manor? It was some distance off; too far to walk with a heavy case.

“Hello Master Harry!” it was a croaking voice. It seemed to come from nearby, but the mist was thickening and he couldn’t see. “Over here!” As if by some magic the fog cleared and Harry saw an old man wrapped in a heavy overcoat, a scarf and a big woollen hat. It was Tom, his uncle’s Faithful Retainer.

The journey by pony and trap was short. A biting wind tore through Harry. He wore only his school blazer and it was no use against the cold. Nor did his grey trousers give protection from the wind. Tom, drove in silence. He was a man of few words as was expected from a devoted servant. He geed the pony and steered it along the narrow lanes to the Manor. His was the only vehicle on the road. Harry hugged his own body with cold and let the wintry countryside pass him by unnoticed.

The Manor loomed; an imposing Gothic pile. Even on a summer’s day it looked unwelcoming. On this day and in these circumstances it seemed especially hostile. Tom steadied the pony while Harry climbed down. “I’ll take care of your case, Master Harry,” the Faithful Retainer spoke with a hint of regret, “Your uncle says you are to go directly to the library.” He studied his own hands intently.

“Oh,” Harry spoke softly. The summons had not been unexpected, but he had hoped there might be some interval before he faced Uncle Gascoigne. He trudged towards the door. The inside of the manor was as ugly and imposing as the outside. The hallway could have been the entrance to a municipal town hall. It might be large enough to house a cricket pitch. Several doors of heavy dark oak ran into it. Harry was not concerned with these. The room he sought was up the imposing spiral staircase on the first floor. He trudged up it.

Harry was a boy of little imagination, so as he made his journey he did not reflect on its similarity to St. Tom’s. He had been summoned to the housemaster’s study countless times, each journey requiring a long trek through School House, along a narrow passageway towards a heavy wooden door. On the other side he would be confronted by a cane-wielding master. What happened next can be safely left to the reader’s imagination.

Harry reached the library door and paused, unsure how to proceed. Should he turn the handle, fling open the door wide and burst into the room and offer Uncle Gascoigne a cheerful “Hello Uncle! I’m home!” Perhaps not. Uncle Gascoigne was not by temperament a cheerful fellow and was generally feared and respected in equal measure by his household and the tenants of the estate he ruled over. He was dreaded by the petty villains who appeared before him at the local magistrates’ bench. Harry tapped his knuckles respectfully against the panelled door.

“Come!” the boomed command was self-important. Uncle Gascoigne was a man who demanded obedience. And invariable received it. With a quaking hand, Harry turned the handle and eased the door open, making only enough space for him to squeeze into the room. He stood anxiously. Uncle Gascoigne sat in a large, padded armchair, a cup and saucer held daintily in his hands. “Close the door boy! Close the door! You’re letting the heat out!” he barked.

Once this was done, Harry stood, hands deferentially held behind his back. Uncle Gascoigne called the room his “library” but in truth it was a drawing room with shelves of books. Harry had never once troubled himself to handle any of the hundreds of volumes that surrounded him. As well as an armchair the room contained a dining table, matching chairs and an ancient Chesterfield-type couch.

Uncle Gascoigne returned his cup and saucer to the table and stretched his arms wide. He was an imposing figure, standing head and shoulders above Harry, who himself was no dwarf. He wore a frockcoat, waistcoat and striped trousers. Harry did not know this but he had recently returned from the Magistrates’ Court. Even as they spoke seven youths were under the lash of the local police sergeant.

Uncle Gascoigne frowned. He gripped the lapel of his coat and steadied himself. This was how he stood when making speeches at the Tory Association. He had prepared some words. Harry did not change his stance; hands behind back, head high. At St. Tom’s the form was always to look at a master when he was jawing you.

“Since your parents passed on,” Uncle Gascoigne droned, “I have taken care of you. I have paid for your education.” He delivered a liturgy on his generosity. “So this is how you repay me.” He picked up a letter from the table and (for dramatic effect) peered closely at it. It was an unnecessary gesture since he knew its contents by heart. It was a letter from the headmaster at St. Tom’s detailing Harry’s misdeeds leading to the inevitable conclusion that the eighteen-year-old must leave the school forthwith.

“You spend your time playing billiards in some God-awful public house when you should be at your studies.”

Harry suppressed a smile. He did much more at the Three Fishers than play billiards, but it was better that the headmaster and Uncle Gascoigne did not hear about that.

“A disgrace!” Uncle Gascoigne had used similar words to the louts at the court earlier that day. For it was true, Harry was no better than they. For all his privileges, he was a wastrel. “We shall have to consider your future at a later date,” Uncle Gascoigne said, his puffy eyes narrowing, “For now …” he let the words trail away and glanced across the room. Harry followed his gaze. His heartbeat skipped, standing in the corner of the room was a large enamel bucket and soaking in water and sticking from its top was a freshly-cut birch rod.

Silently, Uncle Gascoigne took hold of one of the dining room chairs and moved it so that it was in front of Harry. His beady eyes met those of his nephew. He hesitated, trying to read the mind of the wayward teenager. Harry’s eyes were dull; unreadable. “Bah!” Uncle Gascoigne ejaculated. “Take off your blazer, put it on the table. Lower your trousers and underwear. Bend over the chair.” It was a simple set of commands, sternly spoken. The boy would do as he was instructed, Uncle Gascoigne was in no doubt.

While Harry climbed out of his school blazer, Uncle Gascoigne stood over the enamel bucket and gripped the birch rod by its handle. He swished it through the air allowing droplets of water to dampen the solid wooden floor. He tested the rod in his hands, taking its weight. Birch rods were made for purpose and each was unique. They could be long or short; heavy or light. They might have six branches or dozens.

The one Uncle Gascoigne held was not in fact strictly-speaking a birch rod, since it was constructed of hazel branches. Hazel was more easily available in local woods and had the properties of both suppleness and strength. It had been made at the local police station. It was unheard of for Uncle Gascoigne to request them to make him personally a birch, but they asked no questions when he did. Col. Trumpington-Smythe, his fellow magistrate, often made such a demand.

The rod in Uncle Gascoigne’s hand had been expertly constructed. There were fifteen twigs, each almost perfectly straight, that were between twenty-six and thirty inches long. They had been clipped into a conical shape. The ends and tips had been trimmed and a handle bound with cord made. It tapered gracefully from handle to tip and felt comfortable and balanced as he held it. He swished it through the air once more, it had been soaked in water overnight and felt fresh and supple.

Harry watched aghast. His blazer was safely laying on the table but his trousers and underwear were still in their rightful position. “Quickly!” Uncle Gascoigne snapped. “Or do you want additional strokes?” It was a question that needed no answer. Harry had no doubt that his uncle was serious. He forced his hands to unfasten his trousers, the weight of the heavy wool sent them hurtling to his knees. He wore fashionable athletic underwear of the short variety. He hesitated until Uncle Gascoigne’s heavy, impatient breath spurred him onwards. Soon he was bare from the waist to his ankles.

“Bend over the chair,” Uncle Gascoigne swiped the birch, “I assume you know the drill.” Indeed Harry did. Schoolmasters had their own peculiarities when administering canings. One might require a boy to present himself touching toes, knees straight; that was probably the most “traditional” position known. It was, however, not the most efficient method. The posterior was stretched and bent at such and angle that the size of the target was diminished. Others would make a boy go over a chair. How this was done depended on the furniture available. The back of an armchair could be used, but so many of them were tall and a boy could not properly reach over. Most studies had at least one hard wooden chair and this was perfect. A boy faced the seat, gipped tightly on both sides, spread his legs, arched his back and jutted his rear end out. A perfect target, offering up a generous expanse of stretched bottom for the schoolmaster’s cane. Harry chose that latter position.

Uncle Gascoigne was no expert at birching. It was one of his roles in life to order others to perform such acts. He acted on instinct. He supposed the general idea was to assault as great an area of the naked buttocks now on show as possible. The posterior should end up raw and tender, but there was no need to leave the boy bloodied and battered.

He took up position to Harry’s left. The cheeks quivered in anticipation of the assault to come. The other end of Harry appeared stoical. He held the seat cushion tightly, his eyes focused on a small stain on its fabric. His breathing was easy. Uncle Gascoigne rested the birch against his nephew’s bottom so that it covered nearly every square inch.

Harry bit down on his lower lip. He had long since been hardened to the ordeal of corporal punishment, but the application of a well-made birch rod wielded by his angry uncle might prove to be a torment of great proportions.

With the skill of a golfer, Uncle Gascoigne turned his body, screeched, and then flogged the birch across the eighteen-year-old’s bare bottom with startling speed. Harry’s head rose, his mouth gaped and his face tightened, but he uttered no sound.

The birch struck again and the delinquent schoolboy swayed noticeably. His face was now as scarlet as his bottom. He shook his head from side to side, rather like a braying donkey. A third cut slashed his once-pale buttocks, small cuts ranged from his undercurves over the fleshiest part of his bottom. Already his bum was beginning to resemble raw hamburger meat.

Harry gasped, drank in a mouthful of air, then sighed long and loudly. He wriggled and writhed, but he knew better than to try to stand. To do that in the middle of punishment always meant extra strokes (it was an unwritten law). His heartrate sped as the agony travelled through his body; his legs in particular ached terribly.

Uncle Gascoigne slashed two more into the pulsating cheeks. Whip-whip. The second swipe fell low, across the backs of Harry’s thighs. His almighty screech bounced around the library. In the passageway outside, with his ear close to the door, Old Tom the Faithful Retainer winced in sympathy.

“I think you are learning your lesson,” Uncle Gascoigne intoned.

“Yes, Sir,” Harry croaked, feeling he was required to answer.

The birch flew through the air applied with considerable beef one more time connecting with the battered and bruised bottom higher. Harry convulsed. His legs marched up and down like a demented sentry, his hips swayed from left to right and his cheeks rose and fell. He wheezed heavily, sucked a throatful of vomit back down and sniffed back the snot that was promising to drip from his nostrils.

Blood raced through his body, his temples throbbed; his ears were about to explode. The agony was intense, but it was over. “Get up.” Uncle Gascoigne, himself wheezing, returned the birch to the enamel bucket. As it jangled against the side he noted how sturdy the rod was. Very expertly made, he thought.

He turned to see Harry struggling back into his underwear and trousers, the boy’s face was drenched in tears. He stood unsteady, holding the back of the chair for balance. His backside felt like he had been forced into a bathtub of boiling water; he thought he would be unable to sit down for a week.

Uncle Gascoigne pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and swabbed his brow and the back of his neck. The flogging had taken more out of him than he had expected. “You may go,” he grimaced, “And ask Old Tom outside to fetch me a glass of whisky.”

Like this:

Adam accepted my rules the first day he moved into my house as a lodger. They were clearly spelled out to him. He knew what they were. He knew the consequences if he broke them.

I’ve had lads staying with me for about ten years. They all accepted the rules. It was my way or the highway. They were not forced to stay with me. I was happy to have them in my house. But they could not be allowed to take it over.

The rules were straightforward. There was a night time curfew. Meals were at set times and had to be taken. This was a home, not a hotel. Adam was to address me as Mr Castlefield and my wife as Mrs Castlefield. He was to be polite to us at all times. He was allocated a large room with his own wash basin. He could use the bathroom at set times and there was a separate lavatory that (of course) he could use as necessary. Ours was a large detached house, there were many rooms and some were private and he was not allowed into these. There was to be no cigarettes or other tobacco brought into the house and definitely no alcohol. Guests were permitted with the express permission of myself or Mrs Castlefield but they were not to enter his bedroom. It was compulsory that he attend our church with us on Sunday mornings. He was welcome at other times as well, but this was not mandatory.

I explained the rules to Adam when he arrived and I also made sure that he understood the consequences if he broke them. Adam is nineteen years old and a trainee with a High Street bank. He is in Brocklehurst on a nine month course at the local technical college. My wife and I take many of the trainees of the bank and we have a good relationship with Mr Spencer who is in effect Adam’s boss. Mr Spencer likes us to make monthly reports to him about Adam’s behaviour. This is unofficial, but Adam knows we do this. Mr Spencer believes that a successful junior banker should not only be academically gifted and hold a number of professional qualifications, he should also be of sound moral character.

Mr Spencer and I are at one on this and that was why I did not hesitate to draw up my list of rules. I also made it clear in writing that Adam could be subjected to corporal punishment at my discretion should he break the rules. He signed an undertaking to this effect and Mr Spencer was informed.

It was a little over five weeks ago that Adam joined my little family. I would say he is mostly a good boy, but like youngsters his age he needs to be reminded constantly that he is not yet an adult. He can be very mature at times and I commend him for this. But, also he can be wilfully disobedient. I believe he tries to test how far he can go and break the boundaries of acceptability. I have seen it before with other of my charges. Such behaviour is wrong and unacceptable. Adam is fully aware of the consequences when he is disobedient.

I tell you all this by way of background because today I punished him for the first time since he arrived. There have been a number of breaches of the rules. Twice now he has broken curfew and rolled home at eleven o’clock at night. This is entirely unacceptable. He is here to work, he needs his rest at night so he can perform at his best in the classroom during the day. He has also shown signs of poor attitude. I cannot pin this down completely so it is hard to describe, but he can be surly and uncommunicative at times. I have spoken to him about his behaviour and asked for an improvement. None has been forthcoming. I also warned him explicitly of the penalty if his unacceptable behaviour continued. He cannot complain about my action.

I am pleased that when I visited his bedroom this morning he made no attempts to deny his guilt. I reminded him of the conversations we had shared over the past few days. I listed his many faults, he did not disagree when I told him he had been warned about the consequences.

Adam was still in bed when I arrived. He was startled when I loomed over his prone body but quickly regained his composure. I ordered him from his bed. Now it was my turn to be startled. I had assumed he wore pyjamas at night as all of my previous tenants did so. Not Adam, he apparently slept in his underwear. Cautiously, he stood before me dressed only in a pair of tight white trunks. They fitted very snugly and it was clear from where I stood his sizeable manhood was constrained by the smooth cotton.

He stood contritely, head bowed, hands held behind his back. I once more listed his misdeeds and they were many. Adam blushed profusely, clearly ashamed by his misdeeds, but he remained silent. “Do you have anything to say to me Adam?” I asked. I am a fair man. “Sorry, Mr Castlefield,” he said softly. I waited a little impatiently for him to say more and when it was clear he had said all he intended, I vented, “Pah! Is that the best you can do?” His face flushed some more but he remained silent.

I had already decided on my course of action. All that was left for me to do was confirm this to Adam. “Adam,” I said, “You are to be caned.” I don’t suppose this came as a surprise to him, but I let the news sink in before I added, “Stand there, until I return,” then I left the bedroom. I wasn’t away for long. I went to the cupboard under the stairs where I have a collection of curve-handled rattans, each hanging from a separate hook screwed to the wall. They were of various lengths and thicknesses and most would not have been out of place in a headmaster’s study thirty or forty years ago. The one I intended to punish Adam with was not a school cane. It was a Malay cane. It was no longer or thicker than the “senior” school rattan, but it was denser and I knew from my previous experience wielding it across the backsides of older teenagers it would be a mightily effective weapon. Gently, I took it from its hook and held it in my hand. People who handle a punishment cane for the first time often express surprise at how light it is. They do not realise that a cane, unlike a strap or an American wooden paddle for instance, is not a slapping tool. It doesn’t smack the boy’s backside, it whips into it leaving behind a thin (and often deep) welt that can throb for many hours.

I reacquainted myself with my Malay cane by flexing it between my hands. It was a little over thirty inches long and as thick as a pencil. Even so it flexed into a perfect arc with ease. It was dark yellow (almost brown) in colour and had notches spaced along it every six or seven inches. I swiped it through the air and it made a tremendous whooshing sound as it went. The noise attracted Mrs Castlefield from her kitchen. “Yes,” I replied to her unspoken question, “I am obliged to deal with Adam.” Her lips tightened but she said nothing. I could see she was in total agreement with my course of action. She returned to her kitchen and I tucked the cane under my arm and trudged slowly up the stairs.

I found Adam as I had left him, with eyes cast down and hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t raise his head when I re-entered the room but I noticed his eyes swivelled towards me. I slipped the cane into my hand and held it just under the curved handle. I wobbled the cane in the general direction of a small, low backed armchair. The bedroom was quite spacious and contained many items of high quality furniture. “Take hold of that chair and turn it so that the back faces the other way,” I said and pointed the cane so Adam was in no doubt about my instructions.

I was pleased to see that without demurring he shuffled three or four paces across the room. The chair was light in weight and he quickly had it in position. He still could not look directly at me and hovered by the chair uncertain what to do next. I had never beaten Adam and I had no idea if he had been caned elsewhere before but he must have realised my intention. “Stand behind the chair,”’ I ordered curtly. I think it is best to get on with the job in hand. “Closer boy, closer,” I complained when he moved forward but stopped a full yard away. He took a couple of pigeon steps. Now, he was in position. I took a moment to appraise the teenager who stood submissively waiting for my next instruction. I had not seen him in anyway but fully clothed before and had not noticed he had a muscular physique. His chest was broad, his stomach ripped and his legs powerful. I imagine he must visit the gymnasium often. He stood about my height but dressed in only his underwear he seemed considerably shorter. I couldn’t see his face but I knew he had brown eyes with black lashes. His hair was thick and curly and he was overdue a visit to the barber.

I flexed the cane once more between my hands and gave the final command. “Bend over that chair.” I noticed a muscle in Adam’s back twitch. Was this a sign of his apprehension? If it was he overcame it admirably because he took deep breath, rubbed the palms of his hands together and dived over the back of the chair. He reached forward and gripped the front edge of the seat cushion and he parted his legs so that the overall effect was that his head was low and his bottom high. I have already said his trunks were tight fitting and now stretched as he was over the back of the low armchair the cotton clung tightly to his meaty bottom. Each buttock cheek was lifted and separated and I had a perfect view of the ravine that ran between them.

I moved my own position slightly so that I could try to see Adam’s face. This was impossible as he kept it close to the sponge-filled cushion. His neck had turned red but I knew this was quite typical when a boy was in this upside down position as blood rushed towards his head. Adam’s buttocks were round and firm and stretched in this way unusually large. Submissively, he presented a perfect target to me. This was to be Adam’s first beating from me and fair man that I am I intended it to exemplary but not brutal. By that I mean he should know that he had been caned but there was no need for him to be bloodied. Six of the very best strokes with this dense Malay cane would leave him in no doubt that his future behaviour must improve.

I took up position to Adam’s left and placed the cane across the very centre and meatiest part of his buttocks. I “sawed” the cane as I found my aim and was delighted to see Adam’s bottom tense considerably. It was tightening up in anticipation of the onslaught that was about to follow, the two cheeks pulled tightly together trying to reduce their size so the cane would not have so much to whip down upon. Most boys do this, I assume it is a natural reaction from the buttocks. I tapped the cane across his bum maybe three times before I removed it and raised it high before with just the slightest twist of my body I brought it back down at terrific speed. It made a very agreeable (to me) crack as it hit and then sank into Adam’s bottom.

The nineteen-year-old squealed. There is no other word to describe it. It was a combination of air hissing through his clenched lips and a cry of pain. His bottom wobbled from side to side, his head rose from the cushion and his legs stamped up and down. A line appeared across the cotton of Adam’s underwear where the cane had struck and although I couldn’t see it I knew a significant welt was throbbing across his rear end.

I get on with it when I beat a boy. I see no point in cussing him between swipes or making reference to his misdeeds or demands for better behaviour in future. I count up to twenty in my head, make sure that he is steady in position and then swipe again. I put all my beef into each stroke, I couldn’t strike any harder if I were beating a carpet. Number two landed exactly where I intended, just below the first. Now he had a burning stripe across the width of his bum and it glowed white hot. Adam did the squealing and the stomping again but after a few seconds he resumed his position as quietly as possible and waited for the next stroke. I have no idea if this was Adam’s first-ever beating, but I would say he appeared to be taking it like a trooper. The next cut dug deep into the under-cheek, near where the buttocks and thighs connect. Adam let out and almighty yell and his back arched as he sprung to his feet, both hands clutching his scorched backside. I grabbed hold of his shoulder and manhandled him back over the chair placing my hand in the small of his back to keep him there. His flesh was clammy, sweat poured down his spine, although the room itself was quite cool. Adam gripped the seat cushion until his knuckles turned white.

I counted to twenty in my head then there was a brief but awesome whoosh of air preceded the wooden crack that appeared to echo round the room as Adam jerked his head up in response to the cutting pain that spread quickly across his bottom like wildfire. He breathed out noisily, drew air in and breathed it noisily out again. “Ouch!” he cried, sucking air into his lungs so sharply he must have felt his flesh tight against his cheek bones.

Another strokes rained down in parallel with the others, which worked their way up to the top of his buttocks which ultimately shook, twisted, swayed and clenched in a frantic attempt to swamp the unbelievable legacy of pain left by the cane. Adam’s chest heaved as he gasped in great gulps of breath. His thighs rubbed together as he wrestled with the demons which were chewing up his bottom.

I played the cane over the entire surface of Adam’s buttocks before raising it one last time and slicing a devastatingly accurate, forceful stroke just above his thighs. A startled yelp flew out of the boy’s mouth and bounced off the wall. His legs buckled as he fought against the savage line of pain which was charging into him. His hands dug into the cushion and his eyes watered as another cry burst from his throat.

It was over. “Stand,” I growled, determined that Adam should be fully aware of my displeasure. I knew pain was shooting from his thrashed buttocks up and down his legs as he prised himself away from the back of the chair and stood unsteadily and struggled to regain his balance with his hands hovering around, but not daring to touch, his inflamed cheeks. He staggered away and stood unsure what he was expected to do next.

With six swipes expertly delivered, I tucked the cane under my armpit, walked across the room and left. When I arrived downstairs at the breakfast room I noticed that Mrs Castlefield had thoughtfully left a soft cushion on one of the hard dining chairs.

Like this:

I am watching Aitkens. He seems to be waiting patiently for me to begin. He is prostrate across a gym horse, dressed in his PE kit: white shorts and vest. The horse is a little high and he is on tip-toes so he can stretch his body across it to grip the two front legs. This makes his back arch and his buttocks are pointing at me at an angle.

I am surprised how big he is but I don’t know why I should be. He is eighteen years old and one of our prefects. He’s in the rugby team and I suppose his bulk is a virtue on the pitch. The muscles in his arms and his legs are straining as he hold his position.

I can’t read his mind. Is he submissive? Certainly, he did not put up a struggle when I told him of my intentions. Nor, did he protest. Why would he? Why could he? He deserves everything that is coming to him.

The gym is empty, it is shortly after four in the afternoon and school is over for the day. I bet Aitkens wishes he was with his pals, on the bus into town, where they will hang around the shopping centre, leering at girls (or whatever it is boys his age do these days). Not this afternoon. At least not yet; he has an appointment with me first.

I flex the heavy cane between my hands. It is about three feet long and as thick as a pencil. It’s dark brown in colour with notches along it every six inches or so. As I bend the cane I can tell it is more powerful than the rattan canes we usually use. It’s called a Dragon, I believe. It’s property is that it’s denser than other canes and it packs more of a punch. Properly applied it will leave severe marks and bruising on a boy’s backside. Good. Aitkens deserves everything that is due to him. I hope by the time I am finished he won’t be able to sit for a week.

Aitkens is a bully. It is as simple as that. Pathetic, isn’t it. This big, strong sixth-form boy has made a career out of stealing dinner money from the juniors. If they don’t cough up the cash, he quite literally bashes them. I should correct myself there. I don’t believe he has bashed any of the kids, the mere threat of violence is enough to make them hand over the dosh.

I can’t be sure how long it’s been going on, but I have every reason to believe it has been a considerable time. At last we have found him out. Now, he will get his just deserts. I look at him over the horse, he is still, waiting, staring down at the wooden floor of the gym. Is he remorseful? Does he regret his shameful action? There must be some regret surely, but I suspect it might only be the regret of being found out.

I want him expelled from the school. We should chuck him and all bullies out on their ears. That would be a deterrent for other louts who think they can torment their juniors. I wanted him out but I know the headmaster would never countenance it. It will be too public a gesture. It will draw attention to the school. Parents will demand answers to awkward questions: how did we allow bullying to take place? How much is still going on?

No, it is better to keep the matter within the confines of the school. To hush it up, if you will. So, here we are this late afternoon. Me with the cane in my hand and Aitkens bent across the horse with his backside pointing out. I’m annoyed that the school rules only allow me to administer a maximum six strokes. Damn, stupid rules. Aitkens deserves to suffer badly for all the pain he has caused others.

The rule says he can only be caned on the seat “as normally clothed”. That is supposed to mean wearing trousers and pants. I would gladly thrash him on the bare buttocks. And, yes, so hard and so often that he bleeds. There, I’ve said it. He is a lout. He is not a mischievous little boy deserving a short, sharp shock. He is not a lazy bones in need of encouragement.

So, it is to be six on the seat as normally clothed. Aitkens is presenting his backside to me in tight fitting cotton gym shorts without underwear. If some blasted school governor wants to argue it out with me later I’ll tell him Aitkens is as “normally clothed”. That’s as normally clothed for a gym class. Aitkens made no protest when I instructed him to present himself to me dressed in this fashion. Perhaps, he doesn’t know the school rules. That’s his look out. I wonder if I could risk ripping down his shorts and giving him six stingers on the bare. Would he tell on me? Sadly, it’s best not to find out. The headmaster would not support me and it would be me out on the tiles, as it were, and not Aitkens.

I am only allowed six strokes so I will make them count. I discussed how best to do this in the staff room earlier and Hopkins, the Head of Mathematics, told me how the prefects caned a boy at his school back in the day. They would have the boy positioned over a desk (but any piece of furniture would suffice) and they would rub their cane across the centre of the boy’s bum to get an aim, then they would stride away for five or six paces and then raise the cane high above their shoulder and take a run up before flogging it into the waiting bum. “It would take his arse off,” Hopkins told me with great satisfaction.

I am not so sure that I can do that with Aitkens. I think it takes a great deal of skill to get the cane to land on target. So much could go wrong in the run up. I might miss the target altogether. I suppose that wouldn’t matter too much if the cane whipped him across the back of the thighs; that would be excruciatingly painful and would surpass any agony Aitkens might feel from an orthodox caning.

I suppose if I wanted to thrash him on the thighs, I could just do it. I mean I just need to stand beside the boy as I would in ordinary circumstances and whip the Dragon into him there, rather than across the backside. It is a temptation.

I decide not to go in for the athletic approach. I stand about three feet to his left (a cane’s length) and rub the heavy rod across the curves of his cheeks. At such close proximity I see that he seems entirely relaxed; unconcerned that he is about to be beaten. His backside is rather meaty and although this is not entirely necessary I allow myself to rub the palm of my right hand across his contours. I smile gently as his bottom quivers in response to my caress. I pat him twice on each cheek as if to say I am ready to go.

This message makes him wriggle his hips and shake his bottom from left to right. He grips the wooden legs of the gym horse tightly. Aha! He is not so unconcerned after all. He opens his eyes wide and seems to be taking an inordinate interest in the scratched wooden floorboards in his line of vision. I tap the cane across his shorts. I intend an uppercut. That is to say I will whip the cane from below so that it bites into the undercurves of his cheeks. I will put all my beef into it and should be rewarded with a thick welt. It will be in the exact part of his bum that connects with a chair whenever he sits. He will, I hope, feel it for some considerable time to come.

I find my aim and draw the cane back. It wobbles as it rises. I hold it high and steady for a moment and am delighted to see Aitkens’ bum clench tightly. It is now as hard as rubber. As a devoted golfer I have a superior upper body strength. I use every ounce of it as I flog the cane into the seat of his shorts. Bingo! A perfect hit. The cane sinks into his flesh and seems to remain embedded there for a second. Another second passes before “Yeow!!” Aitkens felt that all right. He grips the legs of the horse tighter. His knees buckle under the pain. His buttocks wobble.

I stand back and admire my handiwork. A clear line where the cane struck is visible across his white shorts. I can’t see it but I know there is a livid red welt forming under the cotton. Satisfied with my effort so far, I take aim again. Sometimes with a caning a master will go “round the circuit”. By that I mean he will try to strike as much of the buttocks as humanly possible, leaving not a square inch of bottom un-scorched. There are many merits in that approach. The boy is undoubtedly left sore. But I wanted Aitkens to encounter maximum agony. Since I have discounted the “run-up” approach I intend to go for Plan-B.

Plan-B is simple. For it to succeed I must lay the cane on the same spot as often as I can. This means that the welt that already throbs on his backside will be reignited if I can land the cane on top of it. You get the picture? It will double the pain. Think then how it will be if there are six strokes. I might be able to achieve my ambition of drawing blood.

I take my aim and whack him as hard as I would if beating a carpet. Spot on! His head rises and falls and he stamps his legs up and down. “Huff, huff, huff.” I can’t quite describe the sound he makes, but wind is whistling through his lips. The back of his neck is scarlet, as I suppose is his once-creamy backside.

I take a third swipe. It lands just below the other two. Aitkens yells. Oh how I wish I had been able to give the bully a public thrashing. How the youngsters he bullied for so long would enjoy seeing him reduced to this. I stand back to take in the scene. His knuckles are white, he is holding the horse so tightly. His short, fairish hair is soaked in sweat. It looks like he has just stepped out of the shower. I take a gentle stroll so that I can now see Aitkens from the front. I am delighted to observe his once-open and rather handsome face is now distorted like that of a gargoyle. Good, I hope he is suffering.

Number four hits right on target. He does the wriggling and the stomping and the yelling once more. I congratulate myself. I am on fire. And so is Aitkens’ backside. Tears are flowing freely. I did not expect this. Senior boys do not as a rule cry during a caning. That is something we expect from a junior boy, subjecting himself to corporal punishment for the first time. Again, I rue the fact that Aitkens’ victims cannot see this.

I stand close to Aitkens. His shorts are tight and I can clearly see the effects of my caning. His under-cheeks are corrugated. I want to know if there is blood. I can’t see any so I press my hand into Aitkens’ flayed bottom. Of course, he roars with the pain. The cotton of his shorts is pressing into the welts and I hope to see traces of blood. Alas, there is none. Disappointed, I take up my position once more, determined to rectify this.

I surprise myself with the ferocity of stroke number five. I have found reserves of strength I did not know I had. It was another uppercut and as it whizzes through the air and cracks into his buttocks I am sure it slices them open. That one should have taken his arse off, to use Hopkins’ very apt phrase. Aitkens is in deep distress. Manfully, he keeps his position, head low, bottom high, despite the tears and the snot flowing down his face. I ought to admire his fortitude but I can only hope the humiliation he feels outweighs his all too obvious agony.

One final stroke to go. I hesitate. I dearly want to know what his savaged backside looks like. I have a last chance to achieve my ambition. Shall I rip down his shorts so I can examine the naked flesh beneath? I know I am not permitted to beat him on the bare, but am I also not allowed to do this? I will allow him to pull them up before I deliver the final lash.

I take the coward’s way out. I do not want the aggravation that will come if Aitkens sneaks on me to the headmaster. So for the last time, I take aim. I go for the middle of the red, throbbing stripe of flesh. By now it must feel to Aitkens like he has been sitting on the glowing bar of an electric fire.

Whoop! Bulls Eye! I stand back only now realising that I gripped the cane so tightly that my fingernails dug into my palms. My pulse is racing and I am suddenly aware of the cold sweat soaking the back of my shirt. I stare disinterestedly at the eighteen-year-old writhing over the top of the horse. Yes, he is crying but I despise him because he is not more hurt. Given my way they would be calling for a medic at this point.

I do not want to let him go but really what choice do I have? Six strokes is the maximum I am allowed to give. It is no consolation that I delivered six-of-the-very-best. Aitkens, nor any other boy at this school, would have suffered such a caning before. But, that is no comfort.

“Get up. Go!” I rasp and Aitkens hauls himself to his feet. He dares not look at me and unsteadily he sashays across the gym towards the exit. I watch him as he goes. I tuck the cane under my arm and prepare to leave, a dark cloud of dissatisfaction over my head.

When Roderick was given a list of rules with his rent book by the landlord at his new university digs he didn’t bother to read them. He was soon to regret this.

Nobody would accuse Roderick of being a brilliant scholar but he was a diligent worker. He attended all his lectures and tutorials; he spent hours each day in the library and he handed his essays in on time. He would graduate comfortably and his professors wished him well for the future.

He had a place at Mr Higginbottom’s boarding house where he kept his room clean, never missed a meal time and was unfailingly polite to his landlord and fellow tenants.

Unlike some of the students who roomed with Mr Higginbottom he was a pleasure to know.

Roderick had been with Mr Higginbottom for about six weeks when one evening he attended a classical music concert at the Free Trade Hall in town: the Brahms Piano Concerto No.2 and Dvorák Symphony No.7 led by the world-renowned conductor, Alphonso Romesco. As is the way with the world-renowned, Romesco had little regard for his audience and he lifted his baton about an hour late. Roderick missed the last bus to his digs.

The night was fresh, summer was turning into autumn and the three mile walk home was not arduous for a young man of twenty years. It was past midnight when he walked through the empty streets of the Brocklehurst suburb where he lived. Curtains in the houses were drawn, lights were off; The Avenue was asleep. Except at number ninety-seven where the porch light glowered.

Roderick thought nothing of this. He had never returned to the house so late, he wasn’t to know this was unusual. He rummaged in his pocket for the door key and let himself in. He was tired and ready for a wash down and to clean his teeth. He had a lecture at nine and looked forward to a good night’s rest.

Inside the house was dark and at once Roderick felt uneasy. Old houses at night could do this to a person. The boards creaked beneath his feet; it seemed to Roderick the noise his feet caused was reverberating around the hallway. “Oh dear,” he thought, “I must be careful, I don’t want to wake anybody.”

As he was a considerate young man, he squatted down and hopping on one leg and then the other, he slipped off his shoes. It was difficult for him to balance but he succeeded without mishap. A little absurdly, he tip-toed towards the staircase, his shoes in his hands. He raised his foot to climb the first step when the hall light blazed. He was blinded for a second and confused.

But not for long.

“Aha! Sneaking in late after curfew!” It was Mr Higginbottom. “Thought I wouldn’t notice.” Roderick blinked heavily. He was not yet used to the glaring light. But more than that, it was the sight of his landlord dressed in his dressing gown and pyjamas. He was a portly figure, a kind man would say he had a double chin, but in fact he had at least four. His hair was unkempt and with closer examination Roderick could have deduced that he had been sleeping in an armchair; he had that dishevelled air about him. He stood a little under six feet tall, and his shoulders were broad. If you could image an oblong shape with a large belly; that would be Mr Higginbottom.

Roderick had of course seen Mr Higginbottom many times before (even in his night clothes) so he not surprised at the sight that greeted him. Not entirely, that is. What did bring the young man up sharply was that in his right hand his landlord held a long, thin whippy cane. He held it gently so that it dangled alongside his leg. It was as if he himself hardly knew it was there.

“Missed curfew,” Mr Higginbottom repeated again. Roderick hardly heard him, he was transfixed by the cane. It was maybe three feet long and looked quite thick. It had a curved handle at one end. Although Roderick had never been on the receiving end of one, he knew it was a typical punishment cane that was in regular use in schools up and down the country. His brow furrowed, his mouth stopped short of gaping.

“You know the rules,” Mr Higginbottom spoke calmly. Roderick could not take his eyes from the cane as it tap, tap, tapped against his landlord’s leg. The young man’s frown deepened. He spoke no words, but his look betrayed his puzzlement.

Mr Higginbottom sighed. He wanted to get this over with so he could be off to bed. He had to be up early to cook breakfasts. “The house rules,” he said, “Curfew is at eleven on a school night,” he looked at his wrist and realising he wore no watch, he blustered, “It’s well past midnight …” he trailed off annoyed that he was unable to cite Roderick’s crime with precision.

“Yes, but,” Roderick was no more articulate than his landlord. Rules? he thought, wracking his brain for an answer to the conundrum he faced. He found none so asked politely, “Please Mr Higginbottom, What rules?”

The landlord liked the boy. He paid his rent assiduously; he never broke the rules (until now) and was in all respects the perfect lodger. Unlike Smythe in room seven he never gave a moment’s trouble.

“You signed an agreement to abide by the rules,” Mr Higginbottom explained. “When you first came to live here.”

Roderick blushed, the penny had dropped. The rules. Yes, he remembered. There were two pages of closely typed script. He had signed it, it was true. “Silly,” his inner voice told him, “You didn’t read them.”

He repeated the gist of those words aloud to his landlord, “I’m ever so sorry, Mr Higginbottom, but I never read them. I never realised.”

Mr Higginbottom stared at the young man. Roderick’s bright, open freckled face was the picture of innocence. The landlord had long ago formed an opinion of him; he was telling the truth.

“The rules state that if you miss a curfew you are to receive corporal punishment.” He looked down at the cane in his hand as if for the first time realising it was there. “A caning,” he added unnecessarily.

The landlord’s own jaw firmed (as much as it could when there were four chins). “The rule is quite clear,” he stated. He felt like some old magistrate somewhere in rural England laying down the law: firm, but fair.

Roderick was bright enough to see where this drama was leading. “But, I won’t do it again, I promise Mr Higginbottom,” he was beginning to plead.

The landlord frowned, the cane tapped against his leg more rapidly. He was thinking. Weighing up his options. It did not take him long to reach a verdict. “I am sure you are true to your word. I do not think you will misbehave in future,” he started on a short speech. Roderick’s hopes were rising. Only to be dashed. “But,” (there was always a “but”) “but, we cannot ignore your past behaviour. We must deal with that.”

Roderick could not quite suppress a wail, “But, Mr Higginbottom, please! I promise I won’t do it again.” He then recounted his evening, the late conductor, the missed bus, the long walk home.

The landlord’s face coloured. He was not used to being argued with. He gripped the cane tightly. “Enough!” he growled, his tone taking Roderick aback a little. “You have broken the rules, you shall be punished. All boys here must obey the rules.” He was becoming agitated, he raised the cane and wobbled it in front of himself. “I cannot make exceptions for one.” He stared at the young man, noticing his face was now almost as red as his ginger hair. “Last week I beat Harrison for a similar offence. It was his first time also.”

Mr Higginbottom stopped speaking. He had said his piece, there was no more to say. He would truck no argument. “Now,” he waved the cane ahead of him, “Come into my sitting room. Let’s get this over with.”

Roderick gazed in amazement, his mind in a spin. The landlord intended to beat him. With a cane. On the bottom. Like a mischievous schoolboy. He had beaten his pal Harrison last week? That was the first Roderick knew of it. What a to-do, he thought. He had broken the rules (albeit unintentionally) and punishment was due. What choice did he have? To refuse would mean what? Eviction almost certainly. Would he be in trouble with the university?

“Come on boy, it’s late as it is,” Mr Higginbottom stood in the doorway, brandishing the cane. With skipping heart, Roderick followed him into the sitting room. It was the first time he had been in there. He took a moment to find his bearings. It was a large room, dominated by old, but good quality furniture. A bookcase, with few actual books, ran along one side of the room. Another was dominated by an open and now extinguished fire. A Chesterfield couch was against the far wall. In the middle of the room there were two heavy, well-padded armchairs and a beaten wooden low table. A sideboard was pushed into a space below a bay window.

Roderick stood bemused and watched as Mr Higginbottom manhandled one of the armchairs so that its back now faced into the room. Roderick was no expert on such matters but he read his landlord’s intentions. It was a large chair, but its back was relatively low. Even from a distance the young man could see it was the perfect height for his landlord’s purpose.

“Stand by the chair,” Mr Higginbottom pointed his cane in case there was any doubts which one he meant. Roderick, by now resigned to his fate, shuffled forward and stood a pace or two behind it. He couldn’t get his heartbeat to slow. His head was buzzing. The scene was unreal. Would he awaken at any moment to discover it was all a very strange dream?

“Closer boy,” his landlord barked, his impatience evident. Roderick snapped out of his thoughts. He looked at the chair and then at his feet, realising immediately that he had halted at too far a distance from the chair. He shuffled a pace forward and waited in trepidation.

“Bend over.” It was a clear command. Mr Higginbottom had his rituals and he expected them to be respected. Roderick looked down at the chair, unsure of his next move. Bend over? What did that mean exactly. Well, he was bright enough to understand that it meant lean over the back of the chair, but then what? Where did the arms and hands go? What about his head?

“Pah!” Mr Higginbottom recognised a novice when he saw one; but that didn’t stop him being irritated. “Bend over, grip the cushion in front of you. Legs apart. Head low. Bottom high.” They were perfect instructions and Roderick was grateful to receive them. He took a deep breath, rubbed his hands together for no apparent reason and in one smooth, athletic movement he dived forward. Within seconds he had positioned himself to his landlord’s satisfaction.

Mr Higginbottom wheezed. He couldn’t help it. He found he always did this at the moment one of his charges presented their buttocks to him for punishment. It would soon pass. He took time to review the situation. Roderick was submissive, waiting apprehensively, but in control. He would take his punishment like the honourable chap he was. His head was low and his bottom high. It was a tight bum, filling out a pair of denim jeans splendidly. His waist was slim and the cheeks round. The young man was wearing a green woollen sweater and Mr Higginbottom took hold of the end and curled it up so that an expanse of Roderick’s shirt was visible. Then he tugged the tail of that so it was clear of the waistband of the tight jeans, exposing an inch or two of bare, hairless flesh. Roderick’s hips wriggled, but he settled again without further fuss.

Mr Higginbottom was almost ready. He took a firm grip of the cane and flexed it between his hands. It was a stout rod, but also very whippy. He took its measure, even though he had used it many times previously and knew its capabilities. Then (because he liked the sound that it made, and he hoped it intimidated his boys) he swiped it through the empty air. It made a fine swooshing sound as it went.

Roderick’s buttocks clenched at that sound. He had not asked them to do this, it was simply a natural reflex. They were preparing to protect themselves for the onslaught ahead. “Relax, boy, relax,” Mr Higginbottom said as he gently tapped the cane across the centre of the student’s backside. Naturally, this made the cheeks tense even more. The already trim, tight buttocks now had the consistency of a hard rubber ball.

Mr Higginbottom allowed himself a smile. There was nothing he could do about this. He took his aim, drew the cane away and high and thwacked it down with great force across Roderick’s bum. A thin white line was immediately embossed into the tight denim. Roderick who had shut his teeth in preparation for the pain opened them wide, allowing a gasp of air to escape at top speed. He shook his head gently, but otherwise gave no reaction. It was his first ever stroke of the cane and he took it rather well.

Mr Higginbottom took aim once more. This time a little to the under-cheek. The cut it delivered would reignite when Roderick sat down at the breakfast table. Two down and four more to go. The landlord had his rules and punishments for those who broke them, but he was not a monster. He didn’t want to flog his charges with a frenzy. His duty was to help these young men into adulthood. It was a rocky journey and they would make mistakes along the way. His guidance would help them to the straight-and-narrow path.

He third stroke landed on top of the first. Roderick felt that one, he managed to stifle a yell, but his knees buckled and his legs stamped up and down. Mr Higginbottom paused and admired his own prowess. A job well done, young Roderick would never again sign a document without first reading its contents.

Roderick’s heart had not settled, now his temples throbbed and his eyes watered. He had absolutely no control over his body and it scared him. His bottom was sore but (he supposed) it might be worse. He had no idea what a caning should feel like; how much distress should he be in? It hurt terribly when the cane connected with his stretched bottom and for a second the agony was almost intolerable, sending shockwaves up and down his legs. But (and this surprised him) the intense pain subsided almost immediately into a pounding throb, only to be set off again when the next stroke cut him.

Mr Higginbottom delivered six strokes. It wasn’t “six-of-the-best” – he always kept something in reserve during a boy’s first caning. He needed some threat over them against future bad behaviour. The true recidivists, those who constantly broke the rules, would in time find themselves over the chair, bum held high with their trousers at their ankles and pants snagged at the knees. But, Mr Higginbottom was certain he would never again get such a close-up view of Roderick’s bottom.

“Up,” it was a curt command and one that Roderick was pleased to obey. He pulled himself to his feet; his bum hurt terribly, but even as he waited to be dismissed to his bedroom the worst of it was subsiding. The aching throb was dissolving and soon it would be a warm glow. Later, in the privacy of his room he would inspect the damage and be startled by the sight of six clear stripes running in parallel across his buttocks. They were dark red and when he touched his bottom gingerly it felt like corrugated carboard. He pulled on his pyjamas and climbed into bed. The pain was nearly gone but as he lay in the dark he traced his index figure along the marks, enjoying the sensation it caused reigniting the ache.

Mr Gregory sighed deeply, his eyelids drooped. The office was hot and stuffy. The new central heating was always turned up too high. His throat was parched, his head ached a little (but that was almost certainly last night’s whisky). He let the document in his hand slip through his fingers and flutter to the desk. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be asleep any moment.

The office was large, too big really, he didn’t need much space. He was a boss and, of course, bosses don’t do much work. If you ask a boss what he does, he’ll likely say, “I’m responsible for …” a response to make the questioner retort irritably, “Yes, but what do you actually do?”

Mr Gregory was Administration Manager. He was responsible for all the staff in Administration at Mega Fastenings. That was just about everybody who wasn’t in sales or in purchasing; from the most junior to the senior. One of the juniors was troubling him at the moment.

Ian Norman wasn’t strictly-speaking a junior, he was a student attached for a year to the company for work experience. Mr Gregory didn’t much like young people; he didn’t understand them for one thing. Their daft haircuts, the clothes they wore, the music they played. His had been a mundane life; people his age had never been young. He was born in Bethnal Green, which despite its promising name was not a rural paradise. It was a poor area of London near the docks and heavily bombed by the German Luftwaffe. He left school aged fourteen and drifted aimlessly from job to job. Kids did in those days, there was plenty of work and nobody had much care for the future.

Mr Gregory had lived in Tylesbury for more than twenty years. It was what was still called a ‘new town.’. It had been built in the 1950s to house people cleared from the slums of London. Tylesbury was full of bright little homes for people to live in and factories and offices for them to work at. It was a socialist vision for the future.

He did his National Service in the Royal Air Force. It was in the Pay Corps so there was not much glamour in that. For the first time in his life, Mr Gregory found he was good at something. Mr Gregory was well-organised and meticulous. When he was demobbed he fetched up at Mega Fastenings on the Herbert Morrison Estate in Tylesbury and he had been there ever since; making his way from general clerk to the exalted rank of Administration Manager.

He would never say it out loud, but he resented the hell out of the university students who did work experience. Take Ian Norman, he was close to twenty-one years old and was already made for life. Mr Gregory had checked the lad’s personnel file: posh fee-paying public school; top university. His father was probably some top dog somewhere. In a proper big company, not some backwater like Mega Fastenings.

He resented Ian even more because he was lazy and arrogant. Of course Ian never said anything out loud, but Mr Gregory could smell the scent of superiority on him. He was better than Mega Fastenings, he was here because it was a requirement for his BSc in Management Science (whatever that was, Mr Gregory certainly didn’t know). He’d go through the motions, get his degree and probably daddy would set him up somewhere. Bah!

Well, Mr Gregory’s head nodded over his desk. He would see about that. He had a way to deal with lazy juniors. A tried and tested method. All very informal, of course; nothing written down. It would do Mr Ian Norman a power of good. Take him down a peg. Put him in his place.

The air in the office was muggy, he really ought to open a window. Mr Gregory’s throat was dry. How he could kill for a glass of whisky. A half empty bottle of Bells was in his bottom drawer.

He leaned into the intercom on his desk, pushed down the middle button and sent a message to his secretary. “Get Ian Norman, the work experience boy, to come to my office at five-thirty.” His face cracked. Both his nose and chin were pointed, when he cackled he looked like a witch. “There’s no need for you to be here, Miss Prentice,” he cleared his throat. Outside Miss Prentice glowered. “Indeed not,” she said to herself, “I go home at five.”

He must have dozed off. Before he knew it there was a confident knock on the office door. Mr Gregory started and stared across the room. He found it hard to concentrate. There was a lot of noise from traffic on the estate as people hurried to escape from work. His temples were throbbing a little.

Tap, tap, the knock came again. “Come in!” Mr Gregory’s voice was crisp and clear; it oozed authority. The door was opened confidently. A youth walked in, closing the door. His eyes searched around the room, at first ignoring Mr Gregory. He was looking for a chair, but there was none. He frowned and stood in front of Mr Gregory’s desk, feet slightly apart, hands clasped behind his back. Mr Gregory drank in the sight. Ian Norman was a little under six feet tall and a little on the stocky side. His hair was short, a crew cut growing out. He wore a white shirt, striped tie and pale grey trousers. If he were a couple of years younger, Mr Gregory thought, he could have passed for one of the senior sixth-formers at Tylesbury School.

Ian shuffled his feet; it was uncomfortable standing like this. In front of the desk; suddenly he had a flashback to one afternoon years ago in his housemaster’s study; it was not a pleasant memory.

Mr Gregory leaned forward; he stretched his arms wide and pressed the palms of his hands into the desk. This way his gnarled, lined face eased closer to the boy. Ian flushed, the stink of Mr Gregory’s breath repelled him. Mr Gregory had a speech prepared. He had memorised the student’s many faults. “You often arrive at work late,” he began, “You disappear for hours on end and nobody knows where you are,” he lied. “Your work is of a very poor standard,” he concluded.

Ian Norman stared in disbelief. He had no respect for his ‘boss’. What a loser. An old man stuck at some godforsaken outpost like Mega Fastenings. He resented being at the company. What could these people teach him. He just wanted the year out of the way, to get the credits on his academic record and move on.

“Not good enough, Mr Norman. Not good enough,” Mr Gregory leaned in closer. “It won’t do. Won’t do at all.” Ian blanched, the foul breath and the stare from the old man’s beady eyes unnerved him. “I intend to write to your supervisor at the university to tell him to remove you.” He sucked on his lower lip, savouring the moment. He had the brat just where he wanted him.

“But …” Ian began a protest. The accusations had shocked him. There was a grain of truth in them but he could not argue. Investigation once started might unearth other things more serious than being late for work. His cynical indifference to the company and the little racket he had selling stolen company products might come to light.

“Indeed,” Mr Gregory grimaced. “If you return to the university in disgrace it will have a detrimental effect on your studies. I suppose you won’t be able to graduate?” He spoke as if it were a question, but it was a statement of fact.

Ian Norman stood silently. He was in deep water and he knew it. For the first time since his schooldays he was at someone else’s mercy.

Mr Gregory looked the youth up and down. He was a little podgy, and would soon run to fat. A few sessions in the gym or time on the football pitch would do him some good. “I am a fair man,” he intoned, as if he carried all the worries of the world on his shoulders, “I would not like to see a young man’s life ruined over something like this.” He was enjoying this: justice tempered with mercy. How could Ian refuse his offer. “I have my own way of dealing with wayward junior staff …”

He stood from his chair, and ambled across the room, delighting to see Ian’s eyes follow him. “Do you know what that is?” he halted at a wooden cupboard alongside a bookcase filled with lever arch files. He paused, actually expecting a response and when none came he wheezed, “Pah!” he leaned forward, opened the cupboard door and reached in. Ian Norman’s eyebrows arched. He thought he recognised the faint rattling sound.

Seconds later his suspicion was confirmed. Mr Gregory held a thin, whippy school cane. It was just like the one his housemaster used on him. Mr Gregory flexed it thoughtfully between his hands. It was about thirty inches long and as thick as a pencil; it had the traditional curved handle at one end. Mr Gregory swished it through the air.

“I think you know what happens now,” he growled. Usually at this point a junior clerk or whatnot might try a plea for mercy. “It’s the cane or the sack, it’s up to you. Choose now!” Mr Gregory would retort. Ian Norman stared at him sullenly. This was absurd. A twenty-year-old man forced to submit his backside for a caning from his boss. Whoever would imagine such a thing?

Mr Gregory felt the power of his position. “If you would stand on the rug there,” he pointed his cane to a spot in front of his desk. “And bend over and touch your toes please. All the way. Toes, not knees.” It excited him that Ian Norman stood silently. He flexed his cane and studied the young man’s face. He could read his mind. The game was up, the student had no choice. If he wanted his degree and the life he and his family had mapped out for him, he must go through with it.

Ian’s face paled, he turned his back on his tormentor, paused, psyching himself up, knowing matters had to take their course. He took a deep breath and bent forward. Despite his bulk he reached his toes with ease, his fingertips brushed against his shoes, his knees were straight, legs slightly apart. Mr Gregory watched with deep satisfaction. The boy’s bottom was round and beefy. The material of his trousers stretched across his buttocks so tightly Mr Gregory could see the outline of his underpants. He positioned himself to Ian’s side and swiped the cane through empty air one more time before tapping its tip against the centre of the boy’s right bum cheek. Tap, tap, tap. He enjoyed seeing Ian close his eyes and grit his teeth. He pulled the cane away, rose it high and brought it down with tremendous force across Ian’s buttocks. The boy flinched as the pain hit him, his face reddened, his mouth opened and a gust of wind escaped through his lips. A thin white line was embossed along the boy’s tight trousers.

Ian had a close-up view of his striped tie dangling in front of his face. He concentrated on a small stain near the tip. Mr Gregory flexed his cane once more. He looked across at Ian, bent submissively, offering up his backside for punishment.

Ian felt the cane tap against his stretched trousers once more. The first slash had burnt a welt across the centre of his bum; trousers and underpants weren’t much protection. Mr Gregory really laid it on. Any moment now. Ian knew it would hurt. A great deal. Swish! The cane swiped through the air and landed with even greater power, an inch lower than the first. Ian hissed, his head nodded back and forth. He couldn’t help it. It was a reflex action. There was nothing he could do about it.

Another landed. Ian’s buttocks were blazing. Mr Gregory was an expert with the cane.

Swipe number four connected with the top of his thigh. “Jeeeez!” He wriggled his hips left and right. Fingers left the toecaps of his shoes. He nearly jumped to his feet. That was low. Too low, he would have a deep purple mark there. The pain seared. He had never had a stroke of the cane hurt him so much.

Mr Gregory paused, allowing Ian to settle down. He took a careful aim, he hadn’t intended to whip the boy across the thighs. That was jolly bad form. He struck the next high, on the top of the curves and was pleased to be rewarded with a clear yelp. Good, the young pup needs it. That’ll knock some of the arrogance out of him.

Ian breathed hard. Welts had risen under his tightly-stretched underpants in neat parallel lines leaving a strip about two inches wide blazing across his buttocks. It felt like Mr Gregory had pressed a red hot poker into his bum.

Mr Gregory adjusted his position, placed the cane at a diagonal across both cheeks, so it went bottom left to top right. Tap, tap, tap. Ian tensed his whole body. His shoulders heaved. Whop! The cane flew at the speed of sound, crashing down into the boy’s bum. It connected with the welts already weeping under the boy’s pants, setting each one of them on fire again. Ian gripped his shins. He wanted to jump up and stamp his feet about, or march up and down like a sentry guard. But he managed to stay down. It was over. His bum felt like he had sat on a barbecue, but he had survived.

Mr Gregory slowly paced his office. Opened the door to his cupboard and returned the cane. He turned and looked across at Ian Norman, still bent double, touching his toes. Submissively.

There was a sudden rapping sound on the door. It opened and a small, fat woman entered pushing a trolley loaded with cleaning materials. “Sorry Mr Gregory,” she chirped cheerfully, pretending not to notice the man slumped, head down on his desk. “I thought you had gone home. Can I do you now sir?”